A Jest of God
by Rach L
Summary: Lex drops more breadcrumbs, and this time Chloe pursues the trail. Update.
1. Part 1

A Jest of God  
By Rach L.  
rach_jiwon@hotmail.com  
  
Category: Angst. Action/Adventure. Chloe-centric.  
Rating: PG-13.  
Spoiler: Up to X-Rays.  
Disclaimer: Not mine. Yadda.  
Summary: Lex drops more breadcrumbs, and this time Chloe pursues the trail.  
Note: This story takes place after X-Rays and ignores the next episodes that would follow, which also means it will screw up loads of canon elements and head off to the AU department. And no, it's certainly not my fault that I get the urges to take the painfully-intelligent-second-fiddle characters and nurse them into heroes, as Sandra colorfully put it. ;)  
  
  
***  
'God's mercy on reluctant jesters. God's grace on fools. God's pity on God.'  
--Margaret Lawrence, 'A Jest of God'  
***  
  
  
-Part 1-  
  
It was one of those moments--those that never came often, and were never really welcomed when they did--when she realized that her friend was growing impossibly taller than she was.  
  
Maybe not impossible. A few inches, maybe? But her awkward and clumsy, caring and charming friend who always seemed to be just *there*, was definitely growing taller. And in one of the rare moments when he was standing straight, not slouched, she *felt* him growing, like the Jack's Magic Bean Tree...or something.   
  
And at one unguarded moment, she blurted out without thinking, "Does Martha water you every night or something? How did you get to be taller than me?"  
  
Clark, ever so clueless, shrugged. "I'm still growing. And,"--he gave her that particular smile of his that she personally enjoyed very much--"I've always been taller than you, Chloe, admit it."  
  
"No, you haven't," she pointed out, her voice too edgy for this kind of topic. "I remember you being *especially* shorter than me."  
  
He naturally slowed down to match her pace, his face still lit with that smile. "That was *years* ago, Chloe. A different story."  
  
"Okay, first, no. Four to five years can't be that long ago. And second," she reached up and smacked him on the head.  
  
"Ow. What was that for?"  
  
"For being so smug about it." She turned away with mock-anger, which brought out another smile from his face. And she, running along, hid a smile.  
  
Okay, so maybe four years *was* a long time. It had been when girls were taller than the boys of the same age, when friends meant sharing every little thing including half-sucked lollipops, and looking at her best friend staring at another girl only meant another teasing blackmail material, not the sudden, needling heartache. A lifetime ago. She didn't miss it all that much, yet somehow, she did.  
  
"Hey, Clark--" she whirled around to catch his gaze, maybe to invite him over for dinner, maybe not. She didn't know what she was thinking exactly, but she never got to find out, because she found him staring beyond her shoulders at something else entirely. She knew exactly what--or, more precisely, who--the object of his intense interest was.  
  
It was disappointing, of course it was, but not at all unexpected. She was so used to the needling pains by now that life probably wouldn't be as interesting without them. At least she was optimistic. And smart. She knew how to hide behind the only-friend mask.   
  
See, she had everything figured out. The way she saw it, everyone had a crush in their high school years, and it was destined to end in one way or the other. After graduation, all of this bothersome emotion would be forgotten, just a piece of memory she would be sure to leave behind in Smallville. She could just imagine how awkward it would be if they ever bothered to show up at a class reunion. But by then, Clark would be another piece of fond memory, and hey, she might even be writing to him. Really, nothing that the power of denial couldn't fix.  
  
Meanwhile, he kept growing and growing, until she was sure she couldn't reach him any more. She suspected that every time he became an inch taller, he grew miles apart from her.   
  
And she found out why in the worst way possible.  
  
  
***  
  
  
She was pretty certain that the infamous Kent charm had to be the only reason she was heading off to Clark's to study trigonometry together, because just thinking of the hours of trigonometry with Pete and Clark always made her shudder, and there was no way in hell she could have said yes to it--but she had. She was beginning to think that maybe Clark knew *exactly* what that smile of his could do to her. Either way, she was the helpless victim. She sighed, tugged a renegade streak of her hair behind her ear, and hurried her steps.  
  
When she finally reached the Kent Farm, however, she found that she wasn't the only one trying to enter the house. She frowned at the long lurking shadow of a man. With a dark Armani suit and perfect designer shoes, the man didn't look like he belonged to anywhere in Kansas, but strangely, he looked almost familiar.  
  
It was probably very unwise, but she called out aloud, "Hey, who are you?"  
  
If the man was surprised by her presence, he didn't show it. "Lex," he closed the distance between them with a few quick steps, and offered his hand, "Lex Luthor."  
  
Lex Luthor? Oooh. "Ah, the infamous prodigal son of the trillionaire," Chloe commented, inwardly comparing him to the pictures she had seen. The photos obviously didn't do the justice to his intense eyes and charming demeanor. Make that *very* charming, she thought as she shook his offered hand. She had never been a big believer of charming guys. Dumb jocks and naive farm boys she could handle, but charming ones were somewhat out of her league, hence making them very dangerous. "And may I ask what you are doing lurking about Clark's?"  
  
Lex Luthor's eyebrow arched up at her comment, seemingly not at all offended. But for some reason, her spider reporter sense was tingling--there was something simmering underneath his casual attitude and friendly expressions. "Mr. Kent doesn't like me very much," he said, shrugging.  
  
"Well, can't say that surprises me," she said cautiously. Mr. Kent not liking a Luthor, now *that* was understandable. She herself had some reservations regarding this rich son of a Gun. Sure, there were probably thousands of stories she could rake out from this man, and hell, she wanted stories. She *lived* for stories. Yet, it was impossible not to think that this man had to have some sort of agenda. Clark obviously thought of Lex as a friend, and Clark still had naive bits about him; Chloe liked to think that she didn't.  
  
Luthor was giving her a smooth smile that she guessed would work on every woman with eyes. "I see you have me at disadvantage. I know nothing about you, but you seem to know everything about me."  
  
"Chloe Sullivan," she tried not to sound *too* guarded. "I'm--"  
  
"Clark's friend, the editor of the Torch. Your reputation precedes you." When she looked at him suspiciously, he quickly added, "Clark's mentioned you."  
  
"He has?" Down, down, girl. Don't perk up. She vainly tried to keep her expression neutral. "Well, don't believe everything he says. You know how he is."  
  
"Do I indeed," an odd, incomprehensible glint shone in his eyes, but it passed quickly before she could analyze it, "But no worries. I've heard only good things."  
  
"Somehow I doubt that very much."  
  
He smiled again, and this time, it felt more genuine. "Actually, I've been following your work for some time. Your theory on the effect of the meteor shower is quite fascinating. And I'd have to say you're leading an excellent investigation."  
  
There was interest in his voice, and all the sincerity of the world. Oh yeah. This *was* a dangerous person. And even knowing all that, a compliment from the Big-Shot Lex Luthor over her stories was enough to bring up a small proud grin on her face. "Well, Mr. Luthor, flattery can get you everywhere."  
  
"Lex."  
  
"Lex," she corrected, not liking the fact that she was consciously thinking of the implications of getting to know Lex Luthor (whose father practically owned Daily Planet, minds you) on the first name basis.   
  
"I was especially interested in the idea that the meteor shower might have caused certain mutations in Smallville. It's an extremely intriguing idea, don't you think?"  
  
She almost snorted. "Well, my, *I* think so, too. I wrote those articles. I should know."  
  
There was a short laughter from him. "Right, well, Chloe. Oh, may I call you Chloe?"--of course he didn't wait for her reply--"I have another mystery for you to solve."  
  
"Yeah?" Okay, this was beginning to get disturbing. Was Lex *Luthor* giving her tips now? "Shoot."  
  
"A man recklessly drove his Porsche off a bridge at 60 miles an hour. Why is it that he's still alive and kicking, having a conversation with a wonderful lady such as yourself?"  
  
"Gee, I don't know. I would think that it's because somebody hauled your wet butt out of the river. I say you should thank him with your life."  
  
"You know," he drew an index finger, the smile on his face seemingly sweet and innocent, "I can actually tell when someone doesn't like me very much."  
  
"Nah," she answered, giving him equally sweet smile. "I like you already. I'm just teeny-tiny pissed that you almost killed my best friend in the world, that's all. No biggie."  
  
The sunny smile on his face didn't even faze. "Ah, but that's what I wanted to talk to you about. Our mutually esteemed friend, Clark."  
  
She was instantly alarmed. He was no longer even *trying* to hide his manipulative streak. She didn't like this. "What about him?"  
  
"I ran Clark over the bridge with me that day."  
  
"Well, no, you didn't. If you did, he would be--"  
  
"Dead," he caught her word, "Exactly."  
  
A chill went down her spine. "You're lying."  
  
"Why would I?"  
  
That was a very good question. "Or delusional. Which, in my opinion, should be very plausible, seeing that you were crazy enough to drive at 60 miles an hour in *Smallville* in the first place. Or maybe your head was damaged seriously--another definite possibility, if you ask me."  
  
Luthor smiled, but it wasn't a pleasant one. "I know what I saw."  
  
She wasn't going to hear this. She wasn't. She wasn't even going to think about what he was suggesting. "Whatever you say, *Lex*." She tried to walk away from him and into Clark's house, but was stopped when he ominously pulled out a large yellow envelope toward her direction.   
  
She didn't want to, but her hand was already taking the envelope. She eyed it with apprehension. "What is this?"  
  
"Something that might provide you with an answer."  
  
Suddenly the envelope felt a ton heavier. "Why are you telling me this?"  
  
"Why, I thought you are interested in finding the truth."  
  
She said nothing, and Luthor, his smile still *irritatingly* intact, began to walk away.   
  
She closed her eyes and tried to control her breathing. Before he reached his car, she finally managed to say, "Weren't you going to see Clark?"  
  
He was wearing a faint grin as he told her, "Nah. I think I'll leave two friends to catch up." Three seconds later, he was gone.  
  
That son of a bitch.  
  
She didn't go to Clark's. She called Martha and asked her to relay the message that she wasn't feeling well, that she couldn't make it to their study session. When her mom said Clark and Pete called her twice, Chloe didn't answer.  
  
She hid the envelope, untouched. That night, she didn't sleep at all.  
  
  
***  
TBC 


	2. Part 2

-Part 2-  
  
  
She had almost drowned once, a long time ago, when they went camping to a river close by. Clark and Pete had been ecstatic to play in the river, but as a bona fide city girl who'd just moved to Smallville, Chloe had the athletic ability that, if measured, would turn out to be close to zero. Of course, she wasn't about to let them know that. In her childish frivolity, she dove into the water on a dare, not knowing that the cliff she jumped off from led to a particularly deep body of water.   
  
Not to be terribly sentimental, but she supposed that was probably when she began to harbor feelings for Clark. It wasn't *all* because it was Clark who got her out when she was in total paralysis, not just because it was him who held her and told her she was going to be okay. It was because he never, ever mentioned the incident or her fear of water again, only helping her to get over it. He was like that; he cared about you, and covered any fault you had. She had been young, but she right away realized that he had a shatteringly lovely soul.   
  
Of course, it was much later when she realized that she had feelings for her friend, and even much more later when she admitted that to herself, but that was when everything really began, when she was drowning deeper into the river and saw him reaching out for her. She had been certain that the image of his hand stretched out for her would never be tainted, always to be savored.  
  
And now as she watched Clark sitting on their bench that they always sat together before the class, intensely focused on his reading, she suddenly remembered something else entirely. The river had run deep, the blackness of the cold water almost ready to swallow her wholly, and just as she was sinking, she had seen his eyes. He had seen her through the cold, dark stream of water and lifted her out seemingly with no effort.   
  
Effortlessly. That was the word. The image of his eyes, now juxtaposed with his hands that had held her, suggested something else, something that felt alien to her.   
  
When she realized what she was thinking, she turned away, her face flushed with guilt. This staring parade (she at him, he at Lana--oh, what a fine picture of the chain of fools they made) was nothing new, but now Chloe wasn't staring at him just to admire his, well, *very* fit body. She was staring at him like she was studying the newest subject for her articles, looking for tiny little hints, some odd anomalies, anything that could give her some clues.   
  
What was she thinking? Why was she analyzing his every move, visually dissecting her friend like this? Just because *Lex Luthor* hinted to her otherwise?   
  
This so wasn't happening.   
  
"Chloe? Hey, you in there?"  
  
She looked up, only to find Pete staring at her strangely. "...What?"   
  
Pete gave her a look, and quickly found his seat beside Clark. "You know, we missed you yesterday. You and the calculator. Damn trig. I'm failing."   
  
As much as she adored Pete, he was no help at all. She had hoped that she wouldn't have to give them an explanation, but now Clark was staring at her, apparently reminded of her absence yesterday.  
  
"Yes, we really missed you," Clark said in all sincerity. "We tried to call you, but your mom said you were asleep. Are you feeling any better today?" If she was thinking straight, she might have been touched by the obvious worry in his voice, but she was thinking more like in a zigzag manner to care about any of that right now.   
  
"Just fine," she tried to shrug off his concern. "It was just a bit of headache."  
  
"Not PMS?" Pete commented with an innocent face. "That would certainly explain it."  
  
She was wondering if pounding Pete with her backpack was better than beating him senselessly with the gigantic math textbook when Clark jabbed him hard with his elbow. "Pete, don't be a jerk."  
  
"Ouch. 'Was just sayin'."   
  
Pete looked sheepish enough (and that jab *looked* hard enough), and Chloe, for all her irritation, couldn't bring herself to think about anything other than the untouched yellow envelope hidden under her bed. So she only gave Pete the daggers of a glare, and half-heartedly went back to the questions she had been trying so hard not to think about.  
  
What did Lex Luthor want?   
  
What did he know?   
  
Why her?   
  
And why the hell was she even thinking about this?   
  
She sighed. At least she could try to think this through like she did with all other mysteries. Step by step. One by one. Answering one question at a time.   
  
From what she had seen, Lex Luthor was one of the people who missed nothing and calculated *everything*. She was pretty certain that there was no reason for him to be dropping breadcrumbs for her if he knew exactly what was off about Clark. Which meant Lex Luthor didn't know everything. For some reason, she was comforted by that thought. Maybe Lex simply heard of Clark's wanna-be-journalist buddy and thought of having *her* investigate Clark. She had the access to the right information, and she was supposed to be his friend.   
  
Friend.  
  
Was she really? If she were truly his friend, why was she even contemplating something that could end up making Clark as another addition to the Wall of Weird?   
  
But that was just it. Lately Clark had been just...around when there were life-threatening accidents. For Luthor, for Whitney, for her, and for Lana, who almost got killed by the crazed Tina a few days ago. All in one month, no less. Normally if it were someone else, that would have been enough reason for Chloe to start fishing for the weirdness that was in Smallville. Because it was Clark, she had never thought otherwise.  
  
Now it made too much sense that it frightened her.  
  
Dammit. She had only thought about this, and nothing else for the entire day. She was being played like a violin by Lex Luthor. She *knew* it, yet there was nothing she could do to change that.  
  
And Lex Luthor, yet another puzzle. Just what exactly did he want from Clark? Why would a farm boy like Clark would interest him?  
  
She turned to Clark, who seemed to be otherwise occupied with staring at Lana and Whitney again. She didn't even have the strength to sigh. "Hey," she began, keeping her voice casual, "what do you know about Lex Luthor?"  
  
At the mention of the particular name, Clark turned his full attention to her. "What about Lex?"  
  
"I'm thinking about doing an expose on him for the next issue of the Torch." It wasn't exactly a lie, per se. "Obviously I'm out of material. What do you think? Aren't you guys friends?"  
  
He fidgeted, looking vaguely uncomfortable. "Uh, I don't think writing an expose on him is such a good idea."  
  
"Why not?"  
  
"It could just cement his bad reputation, treating him specially and putting him on the spotlight. He wouldn't like that. He's a good guy."  
  
God. How could someone who read Nietzsche for fun be this dense? She wasn't sure which angered her more; Clark's naiveté, or Lex's damn sneakiness. "How do you know that? Come on, Clark. It's Lex *Luthor*. Are you sure he doesn't have some sort of hidden agenda?"  
  
Clark, who rarely frowned, seriously frowned at her this time. "You sound just like my dad. You don't even know him, Chloe. I thought you knew better than making judgment on people you haven't even met."  
  
'Oh no, we've met already. And since he dropped a bomb on me the first time we met, I'm afraid he'll dump the ten signs of apocalypse on my lap by next week,' was just about to come out from her lips, but she repressed that. "You don't know him either, Clark," she said, barely stopping herself from screaming. "Meeting him a few times and getting to know his charming personality doesn't constitute as being friends, and that certainly doesn't make you an expert on the matter."  
  
Clark let out an exasperated sigh. "What are you saying, Chloe?"  
  
Suddenly she was tired of all this. Having to doubt herself, having to doubt her friendship, having to doubt...him. "All I'm saying, Clark, is that you should be more careful. Don't be so quick to trust people. You really don't know what some people are thinking."  
  
"Well, that I have to agree," he said, the mischievous look in his eyes apparent, "I really don't know what you're thinking most of the times."  
  
There was that needling pain again. Clark possessed this power over her. She had had no intention of giving it to him, but he had it. Every little things he did and said had the power to hurt her, whether he meant it or not.  
  
But did *she* matter to him at all?  
  
That did it. Something that had been hanging by a thin thread snapped inside her. "Not like you tried to know what I'm thinking, now, is it?" she wasn't sure where the sharp edge in her voice came from, or the anger that sizzled just barely underneath her tone, "Don't pretend to think so much about me, Clark. It's not like you. Go fantasize some more about Lana."  
  
Clark blinked, startled. "Chloe?"   
  
She knew she would eventually regret her words, but she wasn't about to take them back now. In her anger, she collected her things and stood up, speaking to Pete only, "I'll see you in the class." Which she never did, because she skipped the next class and came home, feigning the non-existent headache again. She got into her room and locked the door.  
  
Thirty or so minutes of the internal debate ended up with her curiosity as the winner; she dug up the yellow envelope from underneath her bedsheet. She thought of Clark, whose friendship meant everything to her, and Lex, with whose cocky, confident expression seemed to mock her even now. She thought of the fact that there was no turning back once she opened this envelope.  
  
And she opened it.  
  
"Oh, Christ."  
  
Pictures, pictures, pictures. They were the pictures of one object, a completely totaled Porsche that presumably belonged to damn Lex Luthor, taken in every angle possible. And next to them were several computer-generated photos of the scene of the impact, recreated based on the evidence from the Porsche.  
  
All of them indicated that something--or someone? Oh, god--extremely solid was standing directly in front of the car when it hit the edge of the bridge.   
  
  
  
****  
TBC 


	3. Part 3

-Part 3-  
  
  
Breathe in. Breathe out.  
  
One deep breath, and the turmoil that was dangerously cascading in her mind seemed to calm down a bit. She wasn't going to think about what could happen when it surfaced again. She wasn't. Chin up, her backpack safely at her side, and she was ready to go back to the world.   
  
One didn't need to be a detective to locate Lana Lang in Smallville High. Everyone knew who she was, where she was, and what she was doing with whom the moment they were asked. It was an anomaly in and by itself, but that little tidbit no longer surprised Chloe.   
  
Two overly made-up cheerleaders and one non-pompom-brigade collectively informed her that Lana was hanging in front of her locker. Sure enough, that was where she found Lana. As expected, Lana was in the middle of an animate conversation with Whitney, and, in Chloe's estimation, a few seconds close to smooching. Not about to give Whitney the satisfaction, Chloe casually stepped in between them.  
  
"Oh, I'm sorry," she lied, straight-faced. "Am I interrupting something?"  
  
"Chloe, hi. Not at all." Lana smiled and pulled away from Whitney, who, unlike his girlfriend, looked *very* unhappy with the interruption.  
  
Not that Chloe cared, of course. There was something about Whitney that just begged for it. "I need to talk to Lana," she told him, and when he didn't even look like he was going to leave, she added sharply, "*Alone*, Whitney. Scoot, shoo, be gone, please."  
  
"What about?" His arm possessively went around Lana's waist, apparently disliking the idea of two of them talking without him around. Possessiveness? This practically borderlined obsessive disorder, which, when Chloe thought about it, was the disease many boys of this town suffered from. Contagion, maybe. Another mystery there.  
  
Chloe didn't roll her eyes at him, although she was very much tempted to. "Well, if you *must* know, we'll be discussing the wonderful world of nail polishes, sorted by brand names and colors. Lana, what do you think would be better on me?"--she made a show of going through the stuff in her backpack--"Let see, I have Dark Coal by Covergirl and Seductive Red by Revlon. I think Covergirl is by far cheaper, but it really doesn't last--"  
  
"I'm gone," Whitney quickly kissed Lana on the cheek and was out of sight in less than few seconds.   
  
'Thank God,' Chloe mouthed toward the ceiling.  
  
After he had disappeared completely, Lana turned to Chloe, her expression the one of amusement. "We're not really discussing manicures, are we?"  
  
Chloe didn't have to fake shudders this time. "Geez, no. As if there aren't enough tortures in this world."  
  
"Good, because I was a bit worried back there." Lana turned to the direction Whitney went, and gave her an apologetic look. "I'm sorry about Whitney. Sometimes he could be--"  
  
"An overbearing, obsessive, chauvinistic jack-ass?"  
  
Lana didn't look at all offended. If anything, she seemed almost amused by the whole thing. "Well, 'overprotective' was the word I was going for, but evidently not as colorful as your description." She then paused, and gave her a grateful look. "I've been meaning to thank you for the tape again."  
  
Lana already had said enough thank-you's that could possibly last for Chloe's lifetime. Chloe was about to point that out, but stopped herself. There was no reason to be mean or sarcastic, really. Lana had only wanted to know more about her mother. Whatever happened to Girl Power, Sisterhood? She didn't do jealousy. She shouldn't. Chloe asked softly, "Did you find what you were looking for?"  
  
"Yes, I did. Thanks, Chloe. It meant everything to me."  
  
Chloe briefly caught the traces of tears glittering in Lana's huge eyes. This girl was the embodiment of sensitivity and kindness. There really was something about Lana that brought out protectiveness from everyone. Chloe personally would never show tears in front of others, never that open. No wonder. Lana had a soft, melancholy soul that reminded her of...  
  
Clark. Right. She felt the delicate dam she had worked so hard to build around her feelings already beginning to crack just from thinking about him. She would *not* let that happen. Chloe Sullivan never fell apart. Even if the sky would come crashing down on her, she would pick up the pieces, glue them together, and write an article on who, when, where, what, why, and how this cataclysmic event happened without losing her objectivity. That was her. She never fell apart. And she never, ever, assumed anything. She wasn't going to believe, let alone think of, what was under her bed until she found her own answers.  
  
An illusion of control.   
  
That was all she had.  
  
"Lana, I need to ask you something."  
  
Lana seemed surprised by the sudden urgency in her tone. "Anything. What is it?"  
  
"Can you tell me exactly what happened with Tina in the cemetery? I know it must've been one horrifying experience, and God knows I wouldn't want to recall anything resembling like that, but I'm doing some...investigation on Tina, and I need information."  
  
Lana's expression was instantly clouded. "I'll try my best, but there's nothing clear about that night. It's..." she bit her lower lip, "I can't describe it."  
  
"I understand," Chloe tried to be sympathetic, which was, surprisingly, not hard at all. "Do you remember how Clark found you?"  
  
"Not really. One minute Tina was choking me, and then when I woke up, the police was there. They told me Clark called them in. He found both me and Tina passed out."  
  
That was the official statement, something that Chloe wasn't ready to believe just yet. "What was Clark doing there in the middle of the night? Do you know?"  
  
To Chloe's chagrin, there was a small smile on Lana's face at the mention of his name. "Apparently he likes hanging out in the cemetery."  
  
"Oookay. Morbid." Did he? Chloe raked her brain out, but couldn't recall that little fact about her friend. They'd been friends for years, but what did she really know about Clark? Why did she have to realize that she didn't really know him at all? Why now? She hated this. She hated every second of this.   
  
No, she told herself. No falling apart. Not here, not now.   
  
She bit her lips and resumed her questioning, keeping her voice tight, "Well, then, do you remember how Tina was knocked out at all? What happened to her?"  
  
"I honestly don't know. I was unconscious the whole time, except..." Lana suddenly stopped, reluctant.  
  
"Except?"  
  
"It probably sounds insane, but I remember being locked inside a stone coffin." There was a weary grin on Lana's face. "Right beside a skeleton."  
  
Yikes. Talk about the price of popularity. "I'm sorry."  
  
"No, I mean," Lana didn't seem very convinced by whatever images were on her mind, "I don't think it really happened. It was probably just a...hallucination. Certainly, that's nothing new." There was that weary look again, one that Chloe rarely saw in Lana.  
  
Hallucination. That could be possible, Chloe supposed. Lana clearly thought she was going to die, then her subconscious might have imagined something frightening as being buried alive. Now she thought about it, Lana looked worn out, her always fresh-faced look somewhat shadowed. Chloe decided Lana had just about enough. "Thanks, Lana. I really appreciate your help. Do me a favor?" she gave Lana a small smile, "Let Whitney think we just had an active conversation about the finer points of nail polishes?"  
  
Lana's face broke into a much-needed grin. "That I will."   
  
When Chloe was about to leave, Lana called her again.   
  
"Are you feeling all right, Chloe? I mean," she almost looked embarrassed to ask, "You look a little pale."  
  
Chloe saw the genuine worry in Lana's eyes, and for a second, she wondered what it would be like to have a close girlfriend. She had no one except Pete and Clark, and suddenly she badly wanted a friend she could talk to, someone she could share things with. Someone she could tell this secret that was beginning to suffocate her.   
  
But only for a second.   
  
"I'm fine," Chloe said, straining to smile. "Midterms. Deadlines. Wonderful insomnia-inducers."  
  
Lana gave her an understanding nod, and Chloe quickly left before her mind began to stray even more.   
  
She had asked for this. It was decided the minute she opened that damn envelope. She was going to see the end of this. *She* was going to end this. That was what she had planned, and she was determined to go with it.   
  
The next stop was the cemetery. She wasn't certain what she was searching for, but she had made a chart of the recent events that had Clark as the common denominator, and the most recent one was the freak accident involving Tina and Lana. She had to go back to the scene. She wanted to see it for herself.  
  
And when she did, she couldn't say she liked what she was seeing.  
  
"What happened here?"  
  
Granted, she had seen a lot of strange things in Smallville, but the graveyard wasn't her favorite place to hang out, especially if the tombstones were knocked all over the place, some broken and some completely crushed to powder. Her hand automatically pressed the shutter of her precious camera, not missing anything.  
  
One of the men who were restoring the damage answered her question. "A few days ago," he grunted in between shoveling, "They say a girl did all this."  
  
"Really?" Had to be Tina, then. 'Why', though, hadn't been answered yet. Tina could easily have killed Lana, but she hadn't, only knocking out the poor, harmless tombstones. That made no sense. It would make much more sense if she was in a fight with someone else, someone who was...   
  
No. No jumping into a conclusion.   
  
She continued to take pictures and looked around. Tina had done a considerable damage to the cemetery besides knocking out the tombstones. Just before the tree lines, she saw a few stone crypts, and one of them was missing its door. Suddenly, a thought--a shivering, frightening kind--hit her. Just outside the crypt, a door made of metal bars was thrown on the grass. She kneeled down and carefully observed the edges. It seemed almost as if it had been forcibly ripped apart from the compound.  
  
Without the door, the crypt was open to enter. She saw it then--a coffin. A *stone* coffin. She didn't have to lean over and take a look to know there was definitely a corpse, a skeleton, inside. The cover of the coffin was broken, and there was a hole in the middle.  
  
Which meant...  
  
"Tina put Lana in here, very much intending to kill her."  
  
Of course. That made sense. After all, who would open up a coffin in a crypt to check if there was a fresh corpse inside? An easy way to get rid of a body. Tina's plan seemed to have been going pretty well until someone--something?--interrupted Tina, knocked her out, and broke Lana out from the coffin.  
  
Broke her out?  
  
Just for the sake of it, she tested the cover of the coffin, slamming her fist on it, which, of course, turned out to be a bad idea. "Ow. Crap." She nursed her hand, concluding no, the cover wasn't made of some magical Styrofoam that could be easily crushed.   
  
So it was true, then. Someone really broke her out. How? Crushed the lid of a stone coffin with his bare fist? Ridiculous. There was a perfectly reasonable explanation, like, using a sledgehammer. (Sledgehammer. Right. Did she really think of that just now?) But what about the door? It had been ripped apart. Who, what, could have done that? And...  
  
And Clark had been the one who found Lana.  
  
Sudden nausea overwhelmed her. She rushed out of the crypt, trying to breathe. Her knees felt weak.  
  
This meant nothing. Just because Lana hadn't been hallucinating, it didn't mean Clark was the one who rescued her. If that were the case, the Clark she knew would *not* miss the chance of coming out as a hero in front of Lana. That couldn't be the case.  
  
Unless he had something to hide.   
  
The Clark she knew had nothing to hide. She *knew* Clark. She knew him better than himself.   
  
Did she really?  
  
She wasn't going to fall apart. Of course not. An illusion of control. She still had it.  
  
Yet, when she was walking out of the cemetery, her hands were shaking.   
  
  
***  
TBC 


	4. Part 4

-Part 4-  
  
  
"Chloe."  
  
"Roger."  
  
"What can I do for you?"  
  
"The access password for the school medical records."  
  
"In return?"  
  
"Name it."  
  
"Well, it *is* the official school record. The firewall alone will take--"  
  
"Okay, thirty."  
  
"*Thirty*? What do you think I'm running here? A half-ass amateur cracking operation? I'm a professional!"  
  
Professional? Chloe refrained herself from gagging. This slimy jerk called for more every week. "Thirty bucks, plus name of the item Regina Creek wants for her birthday. Take it, or leave it." Roger hesitated, and Chloe briskly turned away. "Well, good luck, Roger. I already had guys begging me for hints, including Jimmy Paterson. You will *really* need luck to compete against him."   
  
"Wait! Alright!" Roger grumbled under his breath, "Deal."  
  
Well, that was easy. Chloe hid a satisfied smile. "Can you get it by this afternoon?"  
  
"Of course I can."  
  
Slimy *and* smug. But there was no hacker better than Roger in forty miles radius, and she had to keep a good relationship with him. She was sure she wasn't half bad when it came to computer, but she didn't have all day to crack a password. She left the computer lab, watching Roger immediately jump in front of the computer.  
  
With that done, she headed toward her next destination, choosing her route extra carefully and mapping her way through in her head. So far, she had been maneuvering through the maze of the school corridors without encountering Clark or Pete, but she was sure her luck wouldn't last long.  
  
Apparently she had jinxed herself just then, because the minute she thought that, a voice suddenly boomed, "Where have you *been*?"  
  
Drat, Chloe cringed. She then quickly plastered a pleasant smile on her face and turned around. "Pete, hey! How are ya?"  
  
Pete was having none of it. He put his hand on her arm and dragged her to the side of the corridor. "You missed English! Man, you missed our presentation!"  
  
She blinked. "Presentation?"  
  
"Hello, fair Ophelia, remember Hamlet? Shakespeare? 'Get thee to the nunnery'?"  
  
Oh, no. The play they'd been preparing to enact for weeks. Of course she had completely forgotten about it. "Was it today?" she grimaced.  
  
Pete looked incredulous. "Of *course* it was! We told Ms. Parker you weren't feeling well, but we had to go without you."  
  
"Really?" She remembered the hours they had put in for this play, and instantly felt guilty. "How did you do, then?"  
  
"Well, Lana read your part for us. She was Ophelia of her group."  
  
Okay, right, Lana. If Chloe had felt guilty thirty seconds ago, now there was no trace left of it. "Well, that should've made Clark ecstatic." Not sarcastic, not sarcastic, not sarcastic. "Should've been happy I wasn't there."  
  
"Yeah, well, our Hamlet was too happy that he got his lines all wrong. Of course I," Pete put his hand on his chest, smiling mischievously, "did an excellent job."  
  
She almost laughed. Pete had that effect on her. "Yeah, well, how many lines did you have that you could possibly screw up, oh, Horatio?"   
  
Pete grunted instead of answering. They walked together in a compatible silence that Chloe appreciated very much before he noted with a frown, "Hey, we passed the math class."  
  
"Uh," she eyed the corridor, thinking of ways to slip away from Pete. She had a few more things to do. The football team, she knew, kept all of their game records and tapes in the office. As the Torch editor, she could demand a full access to them, although she was getting a bit of cool treatment after dissing Coach Walt Arnold in the Torch (the coach who *had* turned out to be a bit of power obsessed psycho himself, by the way). Maybe, if she asked nicely, she could borrow the particular tape she wanted to see. They also kept all the record of tryouts. "You go first," she said. "I need to check on something."   
  
Pete stopped on the track. His serious expression bellied his usually cheerful character. "Okay, Chloe, what's going on? 'Fess up. You're starting to worry me here."  
  
Warning, warning Will Robinson. "What do you mean?" she asked weakly. She had never been a good liar, at least not to Pete. Pete always touched her heart in a different way from how Clark did, and he understood her the most. This wasn't going to be easy.  
  
"You've been bailing out on us. Is it Clark? Because, you know, he didn't mean anything by what he said the other day."   
  
God, how she wanted tell Pete just then. The worry in his eyes, his hand on her back, and every little comforting gesture that came from him weakened her knees. She wanted to tell Pete everything, wanted to be comforted. If she told him everything, she would no longer have to bear this burden alone. She wouldn't be alone with this sickening, sinking feeling.  
  
But, of course, she couldn't do that to him.  
  
"Chloe?"  
  
She forced a grin, and slapped him lightly on the arm. "Can't tell ya. A girl gotta keep her mystery. And since when do I care what Clark says when he's obviously under the spell of Lana Lang? Pete, your concern is completely misguided. Sweet, but misguided."  
  
"Yur, right, completely," Pete muttered under his breath. "Why do I bother?"  
  
She tried to keep the grin on her face for his sake. "I'm just working on something, okay? You know me, once got going, have to get to the bottom of it." Ain't that the truth.  
  
To her relief, Pete seemed to accept that. "All right, but talk to Clark, will you? He thinks you're mad. He's even more gloomy than usual."  
  
"Of course." Of course not. If she could, she would like to avoid him forever.  
  
Maybe this was what madness was like, this odd sinking feeling. Sinking. There was an irony. Ophelia, fair Ophelia. The price for rooting for an indecisive Danish prince who couldn't care less about her was the attack of madness. And drowning. To death.  
  
At least she would've made a heck of Ophelia. The resemblance was uncanny. *And* she was qualified for at least the first stage--she *was* going mad.   
  
All thanks to her Hamlet.  
  
She couldn't think about this now. She steadied herself again, and turned her eyes to the window. The football team, as usual, was practicing outside, their 'manly' yells roaming the field. A quicksilver of a thought passed through her mind. "Pete?"  
  
"Yeah?"  
  
"You run faster than Clark, right?"   
  
"Okay, now I'm offended. Of course I do. Why?"  
  
Why? She eyed the football team again. Why?   
  
"There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy," she said, puzzling Pete even more.  
  
Damn Hamlet. Damn him.  
  
  
***  
  
  
She weighed the paper clips in the matchbox she had, counted every single one of them. The erasers were all organized in the drawer by size, the pins by color. The diskettes were alphabetized, and her small CD collection was reorganized first by the singers, then the album titles.  
  
A piece of paper was on her desk. She glanced at it once, and looked away. She started counting again.  
  
An afternoon of running and timing confirmed that it took three minutes and thirty-two seconds for Pete to run from the track field to the Torch office. The second time it took him three minutes and forty seconds. As far as she remembered, it had taken less than a minute for Clark to get to her when she got almost torched with the Torch office. And supposedly, Pete had much better track record than Clark.   
  
There was always adrenaline. Clark had thought she was going to die. Adrenaline was said to achieve the impossible.  
  
And Clark kicking ass on the field in the footfall tryout session? She had watched the tape with her mouth hanging open, but still, there were researches from reliable academic institutes concerning the rapid increase of adrenaline levels when the players were on the field, and they proved that there was actually biochemical reasons that football players acted even more Neanderthal on the field. It wasn't impossible. These didn't necessarily mean that Clark was...  
  
What?  
  
If she, for a moment, assumed--a big word there, *assumed*--everything that she had found was true, then Clark:  
  
-did not have a scratch on him after pulling a head-to-head collision job with a Porsche going 60 miles an hour. (Computer-regenerated photos could be just *so* unreliable.)  
  
-could crush *very* hard lids made of stone with his fist. (Okay, sledgehammer was *not* out of the question just yet, and hey, it might not have been him.)  
  
-could run fast, very fast. (Adrenaline at work?)  
  
-could flip four to five very heavy football players without blinking. (Again, adrenaline. Plus, the possibility of impressing Lana on the field supplying a very powerful additional incentive.)  
  
Of course, all these contradicted everything she knew about Clark, the always clumsy, awkward, slow one.  
  
After the Time magazines were organized by the date, and the paper files were sorted through again, she glanced at the paper on her desk again. It felt smooth and cold against her fingertips. And irresistible. For the first time, Chloe understood how Eve felt when she first held the fruit from the Tree of Knowledge of Good and Evil. The power. The Serpent. The temptation.  
  
And there was nothing she could do but to give in. She took the paper, typed in the numbers written on it, and watched as the window for the school's official medical records opened on the screen.  
  
Kent, Clark. His student card picture (which he, she knew, hated with passion) popped up immediately alongside with the records the school doctor submitted every year. She scrolled down the document, but she could see nothing that seemed odd, or off. Blood type, knew that. Height, knew that. Clark was a regular guy with regular--or, maybe a bit better than regular--built, no particular illness. In perfect health without any...wait.  
  
This wasn't right. The name of the doctor who had examined Clark wasn't the regular school doctor. If students missed the medicals, they were allowed to be examined their own doctors and bring in the records. There were only a few family doctors in Smallville, and this name didn't belong to any of them.  
  
She frowned, and looked for the phone number attached to this particular doctor. The area number said the doctor was from Metropolis. She grabbed the phone and punched in the number.  
  
After two rings, a female voice answered, "Doctor Kimble's office."  
  
"Hi, I would like to make an appointment."  
  
"Name, please."  
  
"Clark Kent. Ah, I'm making this appointment for my brother. He's been to Doctor Kimble several times before."  
  
Chloe could hear the sound of papers rustling. "Do you have his medicare number?" the voice asked.  
  
"Yes, just a second." Chloe scrolled down the pages to find the number. "391-293-491."  
  
"Um, that's strange. I can't find his file. Are you sure he's seen Doctor Kimble before?"  
  
"Yes, I'm sure."  
  
"All right. Let me double check." She was gone for about a minute, and came back on line, "I'm sorry. There's no record of him on the computer, or on any files. What's your phone number?" When Chloe gave her Clark's number, the voice immediately returned with, "Nope, no record of him."  
  
Chloe stared at the screen. Clark's medical records were clearly signed by both the doctor *and* Mr. Kent.  
  
"Is there any chance the record might be lost?"  
  
"Not likely."  
  
Just as suddenly, she thought that she couldn't really remember Clark being *really* sick, not even once. Pete broke his arm once, she had her share of allergy attacks, and they both shared flu whenever one of them caught it. Clark never suffered from it whenever Pete and Chloe were basked with kleenex. Never.  
  
She closed her eyes. When she opened her eyes again, she forced a light voice, "Oh, man. I'm sorry. I bet he gave me the wrong number. Sorry about that."  
  
"No problem."   
  
The line went dead, and she stared at the phone, numb. Had Clark fabricated the medical records? Did Mr. Kent know about this, too? Why?  
  
Logically, there could be only one answer to that.   
  
No, dammit. She forced herself to bottle that thought. This proved nothing, confirmed nothing of the assumptions she made. It only proved that...  
  
Clark lied.  
  
She leaned back against her chair, looking up at the ceiling.   
  
She wasn't sure what bothered her more; the fact Clark was different, or that he hadn't told her about this before. Or the whole plain freakin' fate.  
  
What was she going to do? What did she want to do? What *could* she do with this?   
  
She had never been frightened by how her mind worked, but now she was. She wished she wasn't thinking, but she was. She wished she wasn't breathing, but she was. At the moment, it felt almost disappointing to be here, alive, thinking. At the moment, she wanted her brain to cease function, just for a moment.  
  
But as her luck had it, her brain did cease to function as the door suddenly opened without a knock. And she found herself staring at the last person she had expected to see here: Lex Luthor.  
  
Immediately she sprung up from her chair, swearing inwardly. Her whole body tensed, and she had to consciously hide the shock from her face. If she didn't know better, she would think that this was the incarnation of the Serpent.  
  
Maybe he really was.  
  
No 'hi', or no 'nice to see you again'. Lex Luthor, with his impeccably expensive outfit, stood at her office doorway, his hands on his pockets, and the trace of a faint smile on his face.   
  
"Nice office," he looked around casually, as if he was her long-time friend who suddenly got to see what she was doing with her life. "Very...homely."  
  
Variety of ranging responses passed through her mind that included lots of obscenities, but she chose the most neutral response, "Yes, well, your approval of my office means everything to me. What do you want?"  
  
He feigned shock. "My, is that any way to treat a friend?"  
  
"I don't remember elevating you as my friend."  
  
He clutched his chest, a smile--which Chloe came to term as the 'irresistibly irritable' smirk--on his face. "You wound me."  
  
"Do you really want me to tell you how much I *don't* care?"  
  
His eyebrow arched up. "Touché." He brushed by her side and just as casually began strolling in her office, fingering the file cabinets as if he was examining them for dust. If he wasn't the embodiment of arrogance, she wasn't sure *what* he was.   
  
When he reached the end of the office and finished examining the pictures of her, Pete, and Clark hanging on the wall, she ran out of patience. Actually, she ran out of that days ago, and now she lived on bad premonitions, which seemed to haunt her whenever Lex Luthor was near. "You know, not that I'm unexcited by your graceful presence here, but is there like a point to this visit other than abusing my stuff?"  
  
He didn't answer. He was now in front of the wide window that looked over the Smallville High track field. He pulled out his left hand from the pocket, and, in one odd gesture, touched the glass with his fingertips slightly, almost as if he was grasping air.   
  
"Do you believe in God?" he asked, just as suddenly.  
  
The question, with his odd gesture, took her off-guard. She had been preparing herself for all sorts of different answers from him, but this wasn't one of them. "What sort of question is that?"  
  
"I don't either," he said all-knowingly, still looking out the window.   
  
She couldn't see his face, but she could just easily imagine his smirk. Smug bastard. "I haven't answered yet," she said, irritated.  
  
"Ah, but if you *do* believe in God, you wouldn't have hesitated to answer me. I agree with you, Chloe. If God exists, then this freak show called life would be His masterpiece. That would be just sad, wouldn't it?"  
  
There was a sort of true bitterness in his voice that stopped her from making a flippant reply. She kept her silence, unsure of what to do. She hated the fact that this Lex Luthor always caught her off-guard. She just never seemed to be prepared for this man.  
  
He continued without turning to her, "But I wonder, sometimes. He seems to exist for some lucky ones. Maybe only few of us are the victims of God's twisted humor, His absence. God's jest."  
  
There was something about him today that felt odd, different...and real. She wasn't sure how to deal with it. Lex Luthor in his flippant self she could talk back to any time she wanted, but this...this felt as if she was treading on a fragile egg shell that was ready to break. She gingerly spoke again, "If you,"--*the* Lex Luthor, who had everything, would continue to have everything just because of his father--"are the unlucky one, who are the lucky ones?"  
  
He didn't answer. He only stepped away from the window, as if...what? She tentatively walked closer, taking the first look at the view he was intensely watching.   
  
And when she did, she felt a load of headaches begin to pound her again. Of course. Clark.  
  
Clark was sitting on the bench, lost in reading. What he was doing at school when he should be home, she had no idea, but she found herself desperately hoping he would just go away. She didn't want to see him, not like this. At that moment, though, Clark suddenly glanced up at her direction. Her heart skipped a beat, and she quickly stepped away from the window.  
  
Crap.  
  
Lex Luthor was now standing beside her desk. "Your friend, now, there is a lucky man."   
  
This, combined with the tense emotion she felt from seeing Clark again, angered her. "You really have ingratitude down to an art, don't you?"  
  
A smirk fit his face perfectly. "Why, because my father is a trillionaire?"  
  
"No," she said, trying to calm down. "If I remember correctly about *my friend* saving your life, you're way beyond lucky. I also remember him telling me that you offered to be his friend. Or was it just your way of luring him into your dazzling company? What do you want from him?" There, she asked it.  
  
His unreadable expression changed into a smooth, smiling one. It was like chameleon, how his attitude instantly transformed. "Exactly what you want from him."  
  
"And what do *I* want?"  
  
"To know. To have the power."  
  
Chloe froze for a second. The Serpent analogy was alarmingly becoming more appropriate every passing second. "You've obviously mistaken me for your double."  
  
"I would never presume such a thing." There was that smirk again. "How's the investigation going?"  
  
Crap. The odd sort of vulnerability she saw in him a minute ago was now completely vanished, the glimpse of something rare she saw in him already gone, irretrievable. He was *the* Lex Luthor once again with a seemingly invincible confidence. It was her turn to be vulnerable.   
  
He really was playing her like a violin, wasn't he?  
  
She wouldn't let him.   
  
She walked right up to him, looking straight into his eyes. "If I'm being used, I kinda wanna know what for."  
  
"Ah, but where's the fun in that?"  
  
This man, this man *really* pissed her off. "You sure doesn't have a personality, but are hell of a conversationalist."  
  
"And she wounds me again." He put his arm on his chest in exaggeration, his expression laughing. "Come on, Chloe. I didn't expect a heartening thank-you for giving you the story of the century, but you could at least pretend to be grateful. You are, after all, glad that I gave you the information."  
  
"What makes you think--"  
  
"Aren't you?"  
  
His eyes penetrated hers, and she wanted to say it wasn't true. She desperately wanted to say no, yet her lips couldn't form any words. Was she? Was she really glad to know all this?  
  
Thankfully, she no longer had to answer, because there was a quiet knock on the door.  
  
She broke the eye contact with Lex Luthor, thinking maybe there *was* God after all. "Come in," she said out loud.  
  
The door slowly opened and revealed--no, no, no, no, no, Clark.   
  
Clark entered the room, giving her a nervous smile. "Chloe, I--" then he did a double take on the man standing beside her. "Lex?"   
  
Chloe jumped away from Lex Luthor, suddenly feeling ill. She had to give it to Lex Luthor, however; he recovered nicely as if he had expected Clark all along. Or maybe he *had*. Bastard. "Hey, Clark. Didn't expect to see you here."  
  
Clark's surprised expression turned into a smile. "This *is* my school. What are *you* doing here?"  
  
"Oh," Lex glanced at her way once, and she tried not to look uncomfortable, "was just having a fascinating conversation with your charming friend."  
  
Clark looked at her, at Lex, then at her again. She wasn't sure what might have surprised Clark more; the fact that Lex Luthor was here talking to her, or that he called her charming and she hadn't killed him yet. "Chloe," Clark said, finally, "are you really writing an expose on Lex?"  
  
She could feel Lex Luthor's gaze on her. She answered too quickly, "No, I'm not."  
  
"Then--"  
  
"Actually," Lex Luthor interrupted in the smooth way he had, turning both of their attentions to him. "I was just leaving. See you later, Clark. It was a pleasure to talk with you, Chloe, as always. Let's do it again sometime."  
  
She swallowed 'Let's not,' and watched him walk out, leaving behind the dumbfounded Clark. She was, by nature, against violence, but now she imagined herself punching Lex Luthor's face, hard, and felt unbearable amount of catharsis. Or maybe punching holes in every tire of his car. Or pushing him into the river again and making sure he stayed under.   
  
"How do you know Lex?" Clark asked soon after, walking up to her.  
  
"I don't."  
  
"But--"  
  
"I don't, alright? That's the end of it."  
  
"You know," Clark began carefully, as if to warm the chilling atmosphere, "I thought you two would get along. Both smart, ambitious, have twisted sense of humor--"  
  
"Well, you thought wrong, Clark." The comparison angered her more than it should, maybe because it was correct.   
  
Was she any better than Lex Luthor?  
  
Probably not.  
  
"Chloe?"   
  
She looked up and met Clark's puzzled glance. She didn't want to look at his innocent face, didn't want to be reminded of the fact that her friend would never, ever hurt her knowingly. She turned away.  
  
"What were you doing outside?" She sat back on the chair, coming back to the computer.  
  
"Uh, waiting for you." He stared back sheepishly. "I was working up the courage to talk to you. Chloe, you know," he shuffled his foot, his cheeks adorably red, "if I said something that..."  
  
God, no. She couldn't hear this. Not like this. Not like this. She cut him off, "Clark, I really have to finish this."  
  
"Um, okay." Clark stared at her for a long moment until it apparently hit him that she didn't want him around. "Uh, see you later then?"  
  
She didn't look at him, only concentrating on her blank computer screen. "Yeah."  
  
She felt his gaze on her, and heard him begin to walk away. She had hoped he would just walk out and never come back, but the sound stopped.  
  
"Hey," he whirled around, visibly trying to lighten his voice, "You're coming tomorrow, right? To the Farmer's Market?"  
  
Going to the Market every Saturday morning with Pete and Clark had been her ritual for a while now, one of the rare things she never wanted to miss. "I'm busy," she said flatly. "Sorry."  
  
Ordinarily, she would've been glad to see the disappointment in his expression, any evidence that he wanted her to be with him. Now, she would give anything to wipe that look off from his face. She didn't need to see that.   
  
"Bye," she said.  
  
"...Bye."  
  
Long after the sound of footsteps echoing in the hallway died out, she turned off the computer, grabbed her bag, and was out of the school in a less than a few minutes.  
  
Lex Luthor was right. She wanted to know, wanted the knowledge. She wasn't kicked out from Eden. She was letting herself out.  
  
She had thought wrong--she wasn't Ophelia. She was Hamlet.  
  
And how was the play supposed to end?  
  
  
  
  
  
***  
TBC 


	5. Part 5

Anyone remember this story? Breaking out of the lurkdom. ;)  
  
Note: The idea for this story was conceived after 'X-Rays', and the story still follows the original outline, more or less. Thus, it ignores everything that happens in the show after that particular episode.  
  
  
-Part 5-  
  
~*~*~*~*~*~*  
  
He is just an arm's length away from you, reading over the editorial you're working on. You are all alone with him at last (Sorry, Pete), and yes, everything about this moment is perfect. You are so close to him that you can smell grass and lemon--a strange combination that is distinctly Clark. His eyes twinkle in the way they do, and you can safely stare into them without being caught. Even his god-horrible red shirt (what's with him and red anyway?) doesn't annoy you this time. This is Clark you adore after all, just the way he is. You love this moment.   
  
'Hey, Clark?'  
  
He smiles as he turns to you. 'Hmm?'  
  
'Who are you?'   
  
The words, three incredible words, roll out from your mouth and you no longer have control over them.   
  
He blinks. 'What?'  
  
This is it. 'Why didn't you tell me the truth? Why did you lie to me? What *are* you?'   
  
Freeze frame.   
  
His smile disappears, his warm eyes turns bleak, and the world crumbles.  
  
What will you do then?  
  
What then?  
  
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*  
  
  
Shrieking noise penetrated her consciousness, slowly turning into the recognizable sound of her alarm clock. Her mind was still disoriented from the uneasy sleep, but her hand moved almost with a mind of its own and turned off the alarm on the lamp table.  
  
It was getting increasingly harder to get up in the morning. The pillow felt so comfortable, so soft, irresistible. She couldn't remember what she had dreamed about, and she didn't care. Whatever happened there, there would be no consequence. Dreams were convenient that way. Say anything you liked, do anything you wanted, but no consequence. That would be nice, for once. Dreamland for dream vacation.  
  
As disappointing as it was, she was here, in Smallville.  
  
And worse yet, today was Monday.   
  
"Sweetheart, is something bothering you?"  
  
Her hand going for the carton of milk on the table stopped in the midair. The usual morning banter between the father and the daughter, which mostly consisted of what's-your-schedule-today, took an abrupt turn, heading where she wasn't particularly ready to go. "What do you mean, Dad?" she asked innocently, resuming to fill the bowl with Chestnut Cheerios and milk.   
  
"You're too quiet, too preoccupied." Dad was working on his oatmeal, his head hidden behind the newspaper, but she sensed feign casualness in the question, and she knew it was the time to reassure a worried parent.  
  
"Nothing's bothering me, Dad. Nothing ever bothers me. I'm a supergirl, didn't you know?"  
  
"Honey, lately you just seem out of it, that's all."  
  
The understatement of the century. She forced a grin. "Never mind that. Can you give me a ride to school today?"  
  
"Again?" This time he finally folded the paper and met her eyes. "You're not taking the school bus? Have you decided against taking the bus permanently?"  
  
She concentrated on her cereal. It tasted rubbery. "Just for this week. There's this project for the paper and I need to get to school early." And it had nothing to do with the fact that she didn't want to see her friends on the bus. Of course not. She was not that petty.  
  
He still looked unconvinced, but gave in at the magic words 'the paper'. He knew she took her job as the editor seriously, that there would be hell to pay if he got in the way in any shape or form. "All right, then. Just don't make this a habit."  
  
"Thanks, Dad," she beamed, relieved. So what if she was being petty? She didn't want to face her friends. She wasn't ready. Even her dad, who she had pegged as imperturbably clueless, noticed that something was wrong with her. Pete would undoubtedly notice that too, if he already hadn't.   
  
She had spent the entire weekend staring at the ceiling, concentrating on not thinking *and* thinking at the same time, wondering if it was possible to master the way of an actress in three days flat. The inactivity of the body left her joints sore and stiff, but her mind had been otherwise occupied. Too much so that, in fact, she was having a permanent brain freeze and the words passing through her head now no longer seemed to contain any meanings--friends, truth, knowledge, power, betrayal, lies, Clark.  
  
The last word inevitably evoked raw, hurtful emotions--guilt and anger with good amount of confusion thrown in, which was never a healthy mixture--that began to violently swirl in her head. She unconsciously tightened her hold on the coffee mug, her *very* hot coffee mug, and yelped as her palm registered the heat and the pain.  
  
Dammit. She *was* going nuts.   
  
Well, at least she'd have the pleasure to bill Lex Luthor for therapy. Small consolation, right?   
  
As long as she remembered, she had taken delight in finding out the truths and sharing them with others. She was experienced in the peril of journalism as much as any fifteen-year-old could possibly be; she had come to realize that people had different versions of the event they had witnessed at the same time, that sometimes there were only the subjective truths, never the absolute ones. It was the responsibility of the journalist to get to the objective truth as close as possible. She wasn't as naive to believe that everyone was always truthful. Like she told Clark once, everyone had secrets. It was the degree of the truthfulness that mattered.  
  
Her sophisticated belief system, however, seemed to come to an abrupt stop when it came to her friends, because, for some reason, she *always* believed in them. People were weak; they had to believe in *something*, even when they were aware of the risk of betrayal. Some bet on God and religion; some bet on people and love. At some point in her life, she must have bet on her friends to be her absolute truths. Pete to be always cheerful and supportive (except around exam times, of course); Dad to love his work and god-awful oatmeal; Clark to be always...Clark. They had been her anchor whenever she discovered more ugliness of the world.  
  
She just...would have it liked it very much if he had told her the truth on his accord. Was it too much to ask?  
  
Apparently, it was.  
  
Now all bets were off.  
  
This time, she almost broke her damn mug in anger.  
  
  
***  
  
  
Chloe watched with odd fascination as Martha proceeded to carry several bags of groceries into the house. A box of cereal on the very top of one of the bags was ready to topple, and Chloe felt an involuntary smile spreading across her own face. The way Martha handled her grocery bags reminded her of the way Clark held his books. Clark, adopted or not, seemed to be taken after so much after his parents, even down to the cute little clumsy gestures.   
  
She tucked in a streak of her hair behind her ear and leaned over the fence that signaled where the Kent farm began. The sudden chill she felt brought her to tighten the coat around her body. It couldn't be the weather that was getting chilly. Then what? The chill she felt, was it her subconscious trying to tell her something? Something? What? That she really shouldn't do this? Had there been any proven correlation between human physiology and the refusal stamps from the subconscious?  
  
Feeling ridiculously foolish with her internal dialogue, she took a few steps across the gate. If she was going to do this, she had to do it now. Clark was going to be back in a couple of hours, and she might lose her last chance.  
  
Chloe hurriedly rushed to Martha's side when the cereal box finally fell. "Here, Mrs. Kent, let me."   
  
"Chloe?" Martha turned to her, surprise and gratefulness in her voice. "This's a surprise. Thanks."   
  
"You're welcome." Chloe managed a smile as she offered to take one of the bags, then mock-frowned. "Where are the men of your house? They shouldn't make you carry all of these by yourself, you know."  
  
"I don't trust them to properly carry even grocery bags," Martha whispered conspiratorially, "But you, I definitely trust."   
  
You probably shouldn't, Chloe almost said.   
  
Oblivious to Chloe's mood, Martha seemed only grateful for her help. She started to chat as they moved toward the back door, "What brings you here, Chloe? Shouldn't you be at school?"  
  
"I have a free block now, Mrs. Kent." A week ago, the fact she was having no problem with this little deception would trouble her mind to no end, but now, being honest with the people who gave her absolute trust no longer seemed important. Chloe the liar. It didn't sound that alien. "I just wanted to talk to you about something, that's all. Is this a bad time?"  
  
"Of course not," Martha opened the door with a gentle smile, "Come on in, then. I'll make you some coffee." She looked curious enough about this sudden visit, but she didn't even ask Chloe to explain herself. Once you had their trust, you had them forever. That was the Kent way. Chloe was taking a full advantage. Liar.  
  
She was a little disappointed to find Mr. Kent inside the all-too-familar house. She had had her hopes up that Martha would be alone (which would make things easier, with the girl talk and all), but this would have to do.   
  
"Hey there, Chloe." Mr. Kent, caught in the process of drinking milk directly from its bottle (exactly the way Clark did, Chloe's ever-active brain noted), had the grace to look sheepish as Martha shot him a warning look. He coughed conspicuously and turned to Chloe. "You know, we missed you last Saturday. Clark said you were working on the paper?"  
  
Liar, liar, pants on the fire... She let on a strained smile. "I was. Sorry I missed the Market. How did it go?"  
  
"Well, asparagus was popular," Mr. Kent looked a little excited as he recounted the list, "The new organic ones, at least, were the items of the day. The baby carrots--"  
  
To Chloe's great relief, Martha came to the rescue as she put down a cup of coffee in front of Chloe, "Jonathan, really. Somehow I don't think Chloe would be terribly interested in the current prospect of the organic market."  
  
Chloe wasn't, not really, but it was hard not to smile. She had immense respect for the Kent family for trying so hard to protect their way of living when the system wasn't exactly encouraging independent farmers these days. Mr. Kent had conviction in what might seem like a losing business, and his family fully supported him. No wonder Clark turned out so well.  
  
Clark.   
  
Why was she doing this?   
  
Because she wanted to know.  
  
Because she had to know.  
  
Because, godammit, she deserved to know.  
  
The cappuccino Martha had magically conjured up for her was hot and strong, and the heat she felt on her hands almost made her forget that Chloe Sullivan was feeling betrayed, angry, and just about ready to do anything that would make herself feel better.  
  
"...wanted to talk about, Chloe?" Chloe blinked and turned Martha, who stared at her with concern. "You said you wanted to talk. Is something the matter?"  
  
"No, no, it's nothing like that," Chloe quickly recovered, "I only thought I could use your help on an article I'm working on."  
  
"That's all?" Martha smiled, "Then why didn't you come with Clark after school?"  
  
For many, many reasons that Chloe didn't care to mention. "Actually, uh, I just wanted to talk to you alone."  
  
"Oh?" Mr. Kent, who was occupying himself with mechanic equipment in the back, suddenly looked interested--and if she wasn't mistaken, a little tense. "Is this about Clark, then?"  
  
"In a way, yes." She had tried, unsuccessfully, to get Clark's adoption record from the net. Some files were not even computerized yet (oh, the wonder of a small town that was Smallville), and what they had on record didn't include a file on Clark Kent. She didn't want to risk tricking Roger into hacking. He would ask too many questions.  
  
That was when this whole friend thing came in handy. She *knew* these people. They trusted her, and she could just...ask them.   
  
Probably what Lex Luthor had needed from her.   
  
A dangerous line of thoughts; she stopped herself from thinking more. Instead, she spoke with overenthusiasm, exactly like how Chloe Sullivan on a case was supposed to sound like, "I'm working on a story that involves adoption policies, and seeing that you're the only ones I know who've adopted a, well, I thought you could tell me about the procedures." She put on her best sheepish look. "I just wasn't sure how comfortable Clark would be with this topic. I mean, it was never a taboo subject for us, but it's not like we openly discussed it."  
  
She pretended not to notice the look Martha and Mr. Kent were exchanging. There was something--apprehension? weariness?--in that particular look, but before Chloe was able to discern it, Mr. Kent answered, "Sure, why not? What do you want to know?"  
  
Again, she pretended not to notice the tense look that still remained in his features. She leaned over the table, her hand automatically reaching for her notebook, "How did you find Clark? I mean," she bit her lips, "If one would like to adopt a child, where would they go?"  
  
Martha sat across her, a slight crease on her forehead. "Well, I suppose people would go to an orphanage, or connect with the social service workers to find the one. Clark, well," a small smile took over her face, and her eyes shone with reminiscence, "we didn't have to look for him. He sort of came to us."  
  
Chloe narrowed her eyes. "What do you mean?"  
  
"What Martha means," Mr. Kent sharply interrupted, "is that we weren't looking into adopting a child, but we came across Clark. And the rest, well, the rest is history."  
  
"You just came across Clark? You didn't simply pick him up from the street, now, did you?"  
  
Mr. Kent glanced at Martha. "Not...exactly."  
  
Okay, this was not going where Chloe hoped it would go. She only wanted to know where Clark had come from, but they were not telling. Odd. "Then what? He suddenly dropped out from the sky?"  
  
They shared that look again. "In a matter of speaking," Mr. Kent answered cryptically.  
  
"Jonathan," Martha scolded him right away. She turned to Chloe, apologetic, "It happened suddenly, really. We went to visit some friends in Metropolis, and they knew someone who was supposed to take Clark and couldn't. So we,"--her hand was on her husband's, just so naturally--"took him in. We wanted to."  
  
Chloe was busily taking down mental notes, but she didn't miss the glance Mr. Kent gave Martha that contained both weariness and pride. There was something there. What was it? It didn't escape her notice that something about this whole scenario didn't ring quite true, but she couldn't pry any more without sounding suspicious.   
  
"So the whole adoption procedure took place in Metropolis?" Chloe asked carefully, and Martha nodded in answer. No wonder Chloe couldn't find any record in Smallville. She really needed to take a look at the adoption record. It had to come with a medical report as well, and that might give her some clues what Clark's condition, or power, or whatever he had. "When did you adopt him, then?"   
  
"November 1989," Martha replied automatically.  
  
What? "Really?"  
  
That was a *month* after the meteor shower. If Clark hadn't been here when the meteors hit Smallville, the usual theory of the meteor rocks affecting people's physiology had to be excluded. Chloe felt her heart sinking. She had thought that was the only plausible answer to all these, and now it had gone down the drain. Then what *was* the answer?  
  
She was pondering all the possible explanations as she asked them some more irrelevant questions just to look she was really writing an article. At one point, Mr. Kent sat beside Martha, his expression honest and quite serious.  
  
"The truth is, Chloe, Clark is our boy. We never thought otherwise. He always has been, always will be."  
  
Chloe believed him.  
  
She finished the questions and thanked them. Before she was ready to leave, however, she remembered another question. She didn't want to ask, she *hated* to ask, but it was too late anyway; she heard her own voice beginning earnestly, "Oh, right. Before I forget, who's your family doctor? Dad's thinking of changing ours. We always went to Doctor Guenin downtown, but Dad doesn't like him. Don't go guys go to Metropolis for regular check-ups?"  
  
"Uh, no," Mr. Kent looked perplexed, even uncomfortable. "We go to Dr. Guenin as well."  
  
No one around here was a good liar except her, apparently. Over the course of her investigations in the Torch history, she had come to learn to reasonably guess whether or not a source was lying to her. The eyes, the windows of the soul. They were the dead giveaways. She'd known the Kents for years, and the differences between the normally pleasant Kents and the ones who seemed to be reluctant and secretive were drastic. It really *showed*.  
  
"I thought I heard Clark mention it like, a long time ago. Maybe it was Pete. Oh well, it doesn't matter. Thanks anyway," Chloe shrugged, gave them a cheerful wave, and left.   
  
Well, at least she wasn't alone in the world of deception.   
  
She walked all the way to the Torch office, tiring her body and hoping that the long exercise would coerce her mind into not thinking at all. Didn't work. When she sank on her favorite chair, her mind still seemed as acute as ever. More annoyingly so.  
  
She sat, staring at her collection of CD's and diskettes. Then the ceiling, then the wall, which obviously could use another coat of painting. She really needed another set of bookshelves, too.  
  
'The truth is, Chloe, Clark is our boy. We never thought otherwise. He always has been, always will be.'  
  
The power of knowledge. Adam and Eve wanted to share the Knowledge of God, the Truth, so they bit into the Fruit of Knowledge, the Knowledge of Good and Evil, only to realize that they were naked. The truth only revealed their flaws, not God's.   
  
What was she doing?  
  
She was doing exactly the same thing.  
  
She was tired of pretending, tired of pretending to be angry, when it fact she was only hiding behind this emotion. She was only trying to justify her actions through her anger.  
  
Who was really betraying whom?  
  
'The truth is, Chloe, Clark is our boy. We never thought otherwise. He always has been, always will be.'  
  
They were protecting him, because whatever his secret was, his parents, who loved Clark like no other, thought it was for the best to lie for him.  
  
She shouldn't do this. This whole snooping business--just wasn't right. That wasn't how things worked for her. Yes, she wanted to know, but at what cost? She was scared. This wasn't her. It didn't really matter what kind of condition or powers, or abnormalities he had; he could be an alien for all she cared. She just didn't want to know how far she could go--would go.  
  
The Fruit was tempting, but she didn't want to end up as the one found naked, all too aware of her faults and flaws. This pursuit was revealing too much of them as it was. This had to stop.  
  
How, though, was another question.  
  
"Ow, crap." She hid her head between her hands, trying to ease the pounding headaches. In between her fingers, however, something caught her eyes. Momentarily, she stopped breathing. "The hell?"  
  
She grabbed her diskette container on the desk, her hands already beginning to tremble. Others would never have caught it, but Chloe saw it--the perfectly alphabetized order of the diskettes had been disturbed. Nothing was missing, but somehow, the order was messed up.  
  
She jumped up and checked her file cabinets, her computer, and the desk drawers. Everything was there, but exactly three items were out of the place.  
  
Someone had gone through her files.  
  
And she knew exactly who it was.  
  
  
***  
  
  
  
TBC... Soon, I promise. ;) 


End file.
